


Tread Lightly

by blotsandcreases



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Crack, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 11:14:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8443714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blotsandcreases/pseuds/blotsandcreases
Summary: All families have secrets.
Featuring Tommen as the innocent young miss maester who is assigned to Winterfell, where there are three important rules. One of them is to never venture to the cellars on the nights when the moon is full.





	

 

All families had secrets.

 

That was just the way of the world, Tommen knew, just like how King’s Landing glittered with the smoke from the gilded pipes of the Red Keep’s courtiers and the soot from the forges along the Street of Steel. Just like how the towers and walls of Winterfell loomed large against the cold Northern skyline, dark grey stones cloaked with snow, and those charred stones not hidden by the snow were bristling with ladders and nets, as if at any moment the wounded giant would rise from the ground and shake its fur.

 

Some secrets were tightly kept to the point that even the secret keepers have convinced themselves that the secret didn’t exist. Like Tommen’s family. It appeared that Uncle Jaime was not merely Mother’s twin.

 

There were only a handful of people who knew.

 

Tommen’s grandfather Lord Lannister had retreated so far into denial that he had kept commissioning songs about Father. But Lord Lannister had still forcibly separated Mother and Uncle Jaime, sending Mother to Casterly Rock shortly before he died. Now that Mother reigned as the Lady of the Rock she had taken it to herself the notion that she should build Westeros’ bank, and would no doubt take back Uncle Jaime from King’s Landing.

 

Tommen suspected that Lord Jon Arryn and Lord Eddard Stark had known as well, but they had died. Lord Arryn’s death had been inconvenient, mostly to the people of the Vale, and Lord Stark’s insufficiently-trialled death had started a war.

 

Lord Stannis Baratheon, Father’s younger brother, had seemed to know as well but if he ever thought about starting a war Tommen would never know: Joffrey, who had succeeded Father as king, had died on his wedding. Tommen had been lost because he’d started chasing kittens in the Red Keep and had ended up in Oldtown. Myrcella had run off to Essos with a Martell bastard girl for a lover. But Lord Stannis had died of the chill so it was his daughter Queen Shireen who currently ruled from King’s Landing.

 

The only ones who didn’t know, apart from the rest of Westeros, were Joffrey and Father. Joffrey had not been well in the head so Tommen had come not to expect much from him. Father had had plenty of wine and women to distract him from knowing.

 

It was clear now how none of Tommen and his siblings had inherited even a single feature from Father, like his black hair and deep blue eyes. Tommen still regarded him as Father, though. After all it was King Robert who had bestowed expectant looks on Tommen, who had heaped hopes on and had carved the image of the ideal son out of Tommen, and who had worn the disappointed frown when Tommen had failed to meet the expectations. It was also Father whom Tommen had idolised as a child, and whom Tommen had grown to realise to be just as human as everybody else. Mutual disappointment of each other had made them father and son.

 

Tommen knew the secret, and Myrcella did as well. Nowadays when he looked at a mirror it was disconcerting to see his face, to wonder if what he was seeing was Mother’s face, or Uncle Jaime’s.

 

Lady Lyanna appeared to be supremely unimpressed with Tommen’s face right now.

 

Tommen schooled his face into an expression of polite interest rather than judgmentally intrigued.

 

“Of course, I understand,” Tommen said. Lady Lyanna’s pale face remained frosty, so he hurried with, “I am here to serve Winterfell.”

 

The wintry light from the window of Lady Lyanna’s study slanted and brushed on her dark hair and black high-necked dress. She was not much older than Tommen, two years if he correctly recalled his heraldry, but she radiated much vaster sternness.

 

Tommen did not mind. He found that, disconcertingly enough, older stern ladies made him rapturously tremble.

 

However there was the matter of him possessing a maester’s chain so all rapturous trembles were a secret. His family was full of disconcertingly-inclined people, like sleeping with twins and cutting up pregnant cats, running away with bastard girls and daydreaming about being sternly stepped on by a lady’s heeled boots.

 

“Prince Jon would have greeted you himself,” Lady Lyanna continued in clipped tones, “but it has been a tiring night for him, I am afraid.”

 

Tommen had had a restless night in the ship as well. It was not easy for him to be enclosed in a cabin of a lurching ship. Tommen had gone out on the deck and leaned against the damp wood of the cabin, dozing with the moon bright and fully bloated in the sky.

 

But for Prince Jon, it could not have been easy to be a widower with children and a castle to run and continue repairing. And that was without the open secret that Prince Jon’s wife had been his half-sister, Queen Sansa.

 

There were also some secrets that everybody knew was a secret, but nobody dared name out loud. Like the Starks’.

 

On the way out of White Harbor where his ship had anchored, Tommen had gratefully huddled into the warmth of his cloak and the carriage, wondering if the Northerners he had passed would look the other way if they knew about Mother and Uncle Jaime, the same way that they looked the other way for the Starks.

 

Of course it had been foolish to wonder.

 

War had torn Westeros. It had torn the Starks like it had torn Tommen’s family. But here in the North the enemy had been Tommen’s family, and Northerners were always a strange lot with their strange gods.

 

Tommen rather wished that he could meet his esteemed friend Brandon Stark again. For mere comfort in this strange place. Tommen could barely remember Brandon Stark’s face, just like he could barely remember Prince Jon’s and Queen Sansa’s, but Tommen remembered that Brandon had fallen from a tower.

 

Brandon Stark was most likely dead, anyway, just like Arya Stark was most likely dead. Just like Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn and King Robb Stark were most definitely dead.

 

King Rickon had been a boy king for a short while, but he had been quite wild and sickly. Often he had gone missing so his older sister Sansa had often ruled as princess regent, donning on the bronze crown ringed with iron swords, King Robb’s crown, the crown fashioned after the lost crown of the ancient Kings of Winter. Eventually she had not needed to remove it for King Rickon had also died.

 

House Stark had fought to survive for eight thousand years. It was doubtful that they would let it die out now. These Northerners were hard men used to the hard times wrought by harsh winters.

 

And there would be no fighting in the next few generations, at least, since the prince consort’s children were also the queen’s.

 

“Should I immediately begin lessons with the children?” Tommen asked.

 

“In a little while, Maester Tommen,” Lady Lyanna said. “I wish to inform you of crucial rules of the household.” She put her palms flat on top of the ironwood table. “The first is that you should never wander into the wing of the lord’s and lady’s chambers. The castle is enormous, and I am certain you have plenty of things to occupy you than go exploring in that wing. The second is that you must not go into the cellars when the moon is full. The third is that you should never disturb Prince Jon during those nights.”

 

Tommen didn’t bother to smooth away his confusion. “Is – Is Prince Jon grieving for the queen during those nights?”

 

Lady Lyanna gazed at him with her unreadable dark eyes. After a pause she inclined her head.

 

“If you would follow me, Maester,” she said, moving briskly for the door.

 

As they walked down long corridors, warmed by hot springs and draped with the snarling direwolf of Stark, Lady Lyanna told him of the three children. “Queen Sansa kindly had me furnished with that small chamber. There are no septas here in the North so I handle Princess Eddara’s education.”

 

Tommen glanced at Lady Lyanna’s shadowy form. He knew that she must be more than capable of such a task. She was a younger sister of the Lady of Bear Island, and Tommen knew that the Mormont women came into the world brandishing battle axes.

 

“I hear that Mormont women came into the world brandishing battle axes,” Tommen heard himself say. “By which I mean you must be as capable as any septa, my lady.”

 

Lady Lyanna’s mouth slightly curved into a frosty smile. “We Mormont women wield needles and axes with equal skill, yes.”

 

Idiot, Tommen despairingly told himself. He suddenly missed Myrcella. He might be only half-sure that Myrcella looked like him, but he was definitely sure that she would know what to say to not seem like an awkward clam.

 

Lady Lyanna opened the door to a tower room. Inside a fire roared cheerfully, and the children played with one another, accompanied by a lady with green hair.

 

The youngest, Brandon, screamed with much enthusiasm at Tommen’s and Lady Lyanna’s entrance. The green-haired lady laughed, distracting him with a lemon cake so that he would stop screeching.

 

Tommen found himself endeared when four-year-old Prince Brandon started burbling happily around his bite of lemon cake, sufficiently distracted. He had the dark hair and grey eyes that defined House Stark.

 

“The maester has sun in his hair,” remarked solemn-faced Princess Eddara.

 

Tommen grinned, and Princess Eddara eyed him uncertainly before she smiled a little. Then she tugged at her twin, Prince Robb, who was still gazing at Tommen with unusual solemnity for a child of seven.

 

The twins had the auburn hair and blue eyes of the Tullys, although one of Princess Eddara’s eyes was a blue so deep that it could pass for indigo in a certain light. Perhaps it was just the fire in the tower room, or perhaps the rumours were true: that Prince Jon’s mother was indeed a Dayne.

 

“This is Maester Tommen,” Lady Lyanna announced. “He will be serving as the maester in Winterfell from this day. Prince Robb and Princess Eddara, you will be attending lessons with him tomorrow.”

 

Tommen bowed his head. “It is an honour.”

 

Prince Brandon screeched agreeably, spraying crumbs on the burgundy rug. The green-haired lady motioned to the maid tending to the fire to fetch a towel for the crumbs.

 

“Maester Tommen,” Lady Lyanna said, gesturing at the green-haired lady, “this is Lady Wylla of House Manderly.”

 

Lady Wylla looked Tommen up and down, then her mouth curved into a slow grin. Tommen remembered that she had a few years on Lady Lyanna. When she rose from her chair the seashells hanging from her pearl necklace tinkled faintly. “Tommen Baratheon, you mean? You look terribly like your uncle. The Kingslayer.”

 

“Lady Wylla,” Lady Lyanna monotoned.

 

Tommen felt his shoulders tense. He glanced at the children, who had thankfully returned to their games. “I am a maester, my lady, and a maester sheds his family name as he secures his chain around his neck.”

 

Lady Wylla’s blonde eyebrows quirked. “Lannisters don’t shed their names. Your Southron royal siblings had adopted the halved arms of Baratheon and Lannister.”

 

“One is dead and one has run away,” Tommen said. He breathed in, slowly working to uncoil his tensed shoulders. “A maester serves the castle he is assigned to. I am assigned to Winterfell, and I will serve Winterfell with my whole being.” He didn’t say _My word is as good as gold_. That was something Lord Tywin Lannister might have said.

 

Lady Wylla’s eyebrows fully arched, as if to say _See that you do_ , before turning her attention back to the children.

 

Tommen looked over at Lady Lyanna to see that she had remained guarded as ever. He refrained from sighing. So this was how it was going to be. It was going to be Tommen being friends only with his ravens.

 

As they stepped out of the room Tommen heard Princess Eddara pipe up, “Lady Wylla, shall we bottle the maester’s hair?”

 

Tommen gloomily descended the tower steps after Lady Lyanna. His shoes scraped on the dark grey stones, and he lightly ran his fingers along the warm roughness of the stone walls.

 

He should start thinking of names for his ravens. Perhaps there were kittens here in Winterfell. Tommen should definitely start looking for kittens.

 

The thought of possible kittens cheered him up a bit.

 

“Prince Jon will be dining with you in his solar tonight,” Lady Lyanna told him midway through the castle tour. “Would you happen to have any aversion in food, Maester Tommen?”

 

“Oh, beets,” Tommen answered promptly. “Just dreadful, those little beets.”

 

Lady Lyanna slanted a glance at him. “Only beets?”

 

“Only beets, my lady. Actually, I was wondering where I could look for pet kittens.”

 

This time Lady Lyanna briefly stared at him as they passed the kitchens, but she said nothing more.

 

“Although I’m not odiously fussy, not at all,” Tommen hurried to assure her. “Regarding the beets. I would eat anything that is served during meals. Would my lady happen to dislike anything as well?”

 

“Not food, particularly,” Lady Lyanna said. “But I dislike unexpected guests.”

 

“I’m – assuming that Winterfell has a lot of those. The singers and mummers and the lot. And expected guests as well.”

 

“Yes. I dislike all manner of guests, all the same,” Lady Lyanna murmured.

 

The tour of the castle grounds was quite miserable since the wind was bitingly chilly and Lady Lyanna, though not biting, was as chilly. She did not even flinch when the same gust of wind blew into their faces when Tommen felt like he had been slapped by a wildling.

 

Tommen was rubbing warmth into his cheeks when he was badly startled.

 

“Seven heavens!”

 

Turning the corner from the forge towards them was a direwolf. Its hulking form was covered in snow-dusted grey fur, almost as large as a pony. Its dark golden eyes regarded Tommen with calm intensity.

 

“It is all right,” Lady Lyanna said. “That is Nymeria. She is quite intelligent.”

 

Tommen didn’t dare make any sudden movements. He remembered being wary of the direwolves as a young child when he had visited Winterfell. “Whose is she?”

 

“She’s – she was Queen Sansa’s. Before that she was Arya Stark’s.”

 

Nymeria loped away from them with apparent disinterest.

 

Lady Lyanna coolly looked at Tommen, and he realised that he was still clutching his chain. “If you would like a pet there are puppies in the kennels.”

 

Tommen started to nonchalantly arrange his chain before dropping his hand. “I prefer cats, my lady.”

 

“There are two more direwolves in the castle,” Lady Lyanna said, after a beat. “Ghost is Prince Jon’s. He is very silent. I assure you he startles almost everyone. Shaggydog was King Rickon’s. He frequents the wolfswood. He also frequently sulks in the godswood since King Rickon’s passing, although it seems that he has taken a liking to Prince Robb.”

 

“Marvellous,” Tommen said, faintly.

 

Direwolves were such fascinating creatures. They were also fascinatingly brutal. Tommen should not have been surprised: Winterfell had always been a wolves’ den.

 

*

 

“I apologise for meeting you only now, Maester Tommen,” were Prince Jon’s words as soon as he had finished inquiring of Tommen’s health and journey to the North.

 

“There’s nothing to apologise for, Your Grace,” Tommen assured him.

 

Tommen’s place on the table was to the right of Prince Jon’s. This close he could see the black smudges of tiredness under the prince’s eyes, and the scars on his face and hands, licked stark by the glow of the lamps. Prince Jon’s dark hair was pulled back from his face, but locks of it had escaped and brushed the tops of his shoulders. He had the long and solemn faces of his twin children, who were dining with them tonight.

 

Princess Eddara had been openly regarding Tommen with fascination in her not-quite mismatched eyes since the onion soup.

 

“Will Prince Brandon be joining us?” Tommen said.

 

“He’s eating with Lady Wylla,” Prince Jon said shortly. “More wine?”

 

Prince Jon did Tommen the honour of pouring spiced wine from the bronze jug.

 

“Father,” Princess Eddara said, “Gage said that there are other kinds of wine. There’s gold wine. But there’s no gold wine in the North. Do we have iron wine?”

 

“We don’t,” Prince Robb said in exasperated tones. “We have milk.”

 

“We don’t have iron wine,” Prince Jon said, smiling at his daughter. For that moment all his tiredness seemed to have been brushed away. “There is no iron wine. But if you ever managed to make iron wine, quickly inform us, Eddara. We should trade it.”

 

“We have milk,” Prince Robb repeated, sorrowfully gazing at his cup. “Why does goat’s milk smell bad? We should add lemons. Goat’s milk smells bad.”

 

“It doesn’t.” Princess Eddara sipped at her cup. “Mother said it’s healthy.”

 

Prince Jon’s smile dimmed. He shot a glance at Tommen. “Drink your milk, Robb,” he said, and started cutting his fish. “You will have wine in a few more years.”

 

“There is a wine called hippocras,” Tommen ventured to say in the silence.

 

He discussed the different types of wine until they finished the fish and they were served with white cheese and dried cherries.

 

“You’re very knowledgeable about wine, Maester Tommen,” Prince Jon said. “Perhaps you might introduce new brews to the castle.”

 

“I can certainly try, yes.” Tommen nodded cheerfully. He liked his wine.

 

“I appreciate that,” Prince Jon said. “We usually dine in the Great Hall. With the other inhabitants of the castle. I look forward to dining with you on the High Table.”

 

At Tommen’s surprised look, because he couldn’t remember a time when Grand Maester Pycelle had dined with his family, Prince Jon said, “I ask a different person each night to dine on my right side. I learn a lot of things from them.”

 

“Mother said it’s good to be with your people,” Princess Eddara informed Tommen. “Then your people will be with you.”

 

Prince Jon’s expression remained impassive. He didn’t look up from his cheese.

 

Tommen shifted uncomfortably.

 

Tommen felt that Prince Jon was not quite the talker. That was all right because Tommen barely shut up once he got started. Prince Jon did ask questions which fuelled more conversation, and the twins were sufficiently rapt audience.

 

A little while after the cheese and cherries, Tommen had withdrawn to retire for the night. Prince Jon had bid him a peaceful sleep, then asked his children to stay behind.

 

Perhaps so that he could talk about Queen Sansa with his children, Tommen thought. Tommen knew that it was difficult to lose a parent. It was disorienting, and for quite some time it felt unreal. That was how Tommen had felt with Father. He had heard people say that King Robert was dead. Tommen had said King Robert was dead and in the same moment he had thought how Father would burst through the doors at any moment, booming with laughter.

 

Winterfell still felt very strange to Tommen that he couldn’t go to his chamber to sleep just yet. He retraced the steps he and Lady Lyanna had taken through the castle, feeling suddenly cold amongst the stones and shadows, and found himself in the godswood.

 

Here the very air seemed different. The earth thick with moss and humus hushed his wandering steps, and the tall dark trees curving over his head hushed the godswood itself.

 

Tommen was bracing himself for a sudden appearance of Shaggydog, who had black fur, according to Prince Robb, but he reached the weirwood peacefully.

 

The tree had a face. It seemed like it was watching Tommen. Tommen traced a light, curious finger on the blood-red sap on the bone white trunk. “You know a lot of secrets, don’t you,” Tommen told the tree conversationally.

 

It kept watching him, wordless.

 

Tommen didn’t mind. He had come to accept that he just talked a lot. He'd talked with Myrcella growing up. He'd talked to himself on the unexpected way to Oldtown, making up stories to cheer himself up. He'd talked with the people he had met, who had seemed to like his talking.

 

“All families have secrets,” Tommen told the red eyes of the weirwood. “But all I ask is for the secret of where I can find kittens. That’s all. I won’t even ask how Queen Sansa passed, if that’s a family secret.”

 

The tree kept silently watching him. It was a strange tree. A strange tree of these strange Northerners with their strange gods. Tommen wondered why, in search of comfort in his first night in a strange place, he had ventured out here in these woods since this tree with the face was the strangest about this den of wolves.

 

“I’m not part of this family,” Tommen continued, lightly scratching at the dried sap. “But I’m part of the castle now. If there were kittens they’re part of the castle, too. I think I can share _that_ castle secret.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's a long weekend, and I was writing an entirely different fic for an entirely different fandom when this one suddenly popped up. I blame the common denominator of wolves. Hurrah for my first unplanned WiP, released wild on the internet!
> 
> When not scrambling for coursework deadlines or daydreaming about fics I'm short on time to write, I'm over at blotsandcreases.tumblr.com sighing happily at all the great things. :)


End file.
